


because this is what you do

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 20:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10670307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: because death is notan alternative. because this is what you do.air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.After Poppy, they survive.





	because this is what you do

**Author's Note:**

> Title and part of the summary are taken from "Survival Poem #17" (Marty McConnell).

Moving back into Harry’s house is a mix between coming home and one of the most difficult decisions in his life.

Poppy had really fucked them both up. She’d done the works on him—cold cell, stripped of everything but a thin undershirt and trousers and kept awake for at least twenty hours each day—and thrown whatever hallucinations she could at him. The padded cell had been decorated to mimic Harry’s bathroom, butterflies and Mr. Pickle and all, and he’d wake up, not knowing at first if he was trapped in another hallucination or his cell.

Their last argument, their last words—he’d been forced to relive that, trapped in the tiny bathroom with Harry’s disappointment and quiet anger. Sometimes, Poppy added an extra dose of something that made Harry shout at him, throw things, or shake Eggsy until his teeth rattled. The butterflies and moths and Mr. Pickle would swirl around him, and Eggsy could never quite step into the bathroom without mentally bracing himself first.

He also hates burgers now. He fucking used to love a nice big juicy one at the Black Prince, dripping with ketchup and fried onions with chips on the side, but Poppy’s ruined those for him, too. During those terrible days, she’d withheld food and water from him, only giving him the bare minimum to survive, and he’d wake up to see Poppy sitting across the room, legs folded, eating a burger from her restaurant in front of him.

Sometimes, she’d make him believe that he was eating, sometimes with his mum and sister or Roxy or Merlin or Harry, then he'd wake up starving and delirious. It was some twisted part of the drugs mixing with his mind, searching out his favorite tastes and textures and mimicking it just enough to make him feel as if he was actually consuming something flavorful and palatable instead of the bread and cold hot dogs she'd tossed at him once in a while like a starving stray on the street. She’d crowed over that, too, the genius of her biochemical engineering.

But the martinis had been real: gin and vermouth and dosed with more drug cocktails. She would watch him drink them with a satisfied smile, then pat his head as if he were a child. Sometimes, she’d be cloaked as Harry, giving him a mixed glass with a fond smile.

“How do you know about them?” he’d demanded one day, and Poppy only smiled. “Who else, dear? Harry told us. Seemed to be a fond memory for you, yes? Maybe if you're good, you can have some more of those.”

And Eggsy now can’t have those, either, at least the ones Harry taught him to make. Vodka ones are all right, but he can never touch anything handed to him without checking first for some strange taste, even when Harry makes him meals and lets him watch everything he puts into it. Only when Eggsy cooks, he can eat without worry.

Those sessions had stretched out for what had seemed like months, hallucination after hallucinations, but when Roxy and Statesman broke down the doors, they’d told him that he’d only been in there for a week.

A fucking week. A week of Charlie taunting him in the doorway, Poppy experimenting on him and trying to pump him for information, and Harry—Harry, real or not, wincing and smiling and begging and shouting and tearing into him.

No. He had no right. Harry had been the one to be captured, brainwashed, forced to do horrible thing after horrible thing after Kentucky. And he’d been there for over a _year_ , far longer than Eggsy.

Harry now looks at him, longer than Eggsy remembers him looking before, but stays still. He wouldn’t tell Eggsy exactly what he saw—and neither would Eggsy—but some days were worse than most. They still slept in the guest room together, carefully on opposite sides of the bed, and when Harry woke up, Eggsy could roll out of the way or stop him before Harry started pounding on the walls, demanding to be let out.

One time, his fists had begun to become bloody, and Eggsy did the only thing he could think of without grabbing Harry—Harry hated that, hated that even before Poppy—calling Merlin and asking him to deliver a faint shock to the signet ring still on Harry’s finger. The jolt had helped Harry snap out of it, and Eggsy had bandaged his knuckles, Harry ashamedly apologizing the whole time.

“It’s not your fault,” Eggsy had said. “It’s not your fault.”

“Everything I did—“

“It was not under your control.” He tried to recall Morgana’s advice: soothing repetition. “It was not your fault.”

“I hurt you. Merlin. Kingsman—“

“No, Harry, not your fault.”

“Those civilians—“

“Not your fault, Harry.” Eggsy dabbed the last of the antiseptic and rubbed Harry’s arm.

“How are you still here?” Harry asked, shaking his head. “I…am not fit to be a Kingsman. Not fit to be a man—”

“Neither am I,” Eggsy said firmly. He was on leave, too, after all. “But we can work on this together. Merlin saved our spots. They’ll be ready for us when we come back. And we will. Galahad and Gawain. Knights. Just like…I imagined. Back then.” He allowed himself a faint smile. “Harry and Eggsy, together against the world. We saved it once together, and we’ll do it again.”

And it seems like that sometimes. Roxy comes over, bearing news about Kingsman and Statesman, and sits down to tea in her free time, occasionally bringing her uncle along to challenge Harry to card games. Sometimes, Merlin is in tow with a bottle of scotch or some Scottish dish for dinner. They visit Eggsy’s mum and sister, too, and his mum must know something of went happened to him because she doesn’t glare at Harry for one minute for putting an arm around his shoulder. They go to Kingsman, too, for therapy sessions, and it’s a bit comforting to know things are beginning to run again, especially with the help of Statesman’s volunteers.

They’re alone together, though, most days. At first, it was strange with varying factors for each of them. For Eggsy, Harry had been “dead” for over a solid year and the rest of the time was with a brainwashed Harry or a hallucination. For Harry, he’d believed, thanks to Poppy, that Eggsy had abandoned him and was his mortal enemy—and then had been bombarded nearly all at once with the truth.

Whatever they had between them could have been damaged irrevocably, but they had leaned on each other those long months, despite doubts. They spent the rest of time after everything was wrapped up by talking, relearning each other. Jack had entertained them all with a lasso show involving the Statesman-owned bar, and when Harry had laughed, head quite close to touching Eggsy’s forehead and leg pressing Eggsy’s in the booth, Eggsy had felt a small stirring of hope that everything would be okay.

Now, they’re together in the house, JB sleeping at their feet, cooking breakfast in the mornings, and having dinner in front of the telly. Harry keeps looking around, still on edge, but can relax long enough to drape an arm around Eggsy’s shoulder and hold him close. Eggsy can breathe in Harry’s scent, something Poppy’s cocktails had never been quite able to mimic just right, head resting on Harry’s chest, falling in time to his breathing.

“I have to start dinner,” Harry comments soon after the credits of _Roman Holiday_ begin rolling.

“What’s the menu?” Eggsy asks, glancing at JB chewing on his bone in his tartan doggy bed. The pug had been watched by his mum and sister while he was in America—thank god he hadn’t been on the grounds that day—and looking at him always made Eggsy feel a bit better. JB still treated him the same as ever, wagging his tail and curling up against him and barking for walks. There’s nothing more constant than a dog.

“Hmm…something a bit easy.” Harry thoughtfully presses his nose into Eggsy’s hair, murmuring, “This is cheating, but I have frozen tikka masala and leftover rice in the fridge. We have enough for stir-fried vegetables, too. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Eggsy stretches, rolling his neck. “Mm.” He begins to rub Harry’s side. “I don’t want to get up just now.”

Harry kisses him, soft and tender. Poppy couldn’t replicate that right, either, thank God. “Hmm. After dinner, we can go to bed if you want. Or watch another film.”

Eggsy looks at the DVDs, _Fast and Furious_ mixed in with _The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari._ “What’s the last one? Some artsy thing?”

“I think…” Harry pauses, hesitating before saying, “Perhaps…not tonight.”

Eggsy nods silently. Sometimes it’s a certain kind of food, music, colors, sounds, whatever, but whenever it happens, they avoid it like hell. “All right. How do you feel about… _Howl’s Moving Castle_?”

Harry smiles, albeit with that guilty look he has after what Merlin delicately calls _flare-ups_. “Sounds lovely.” He squeezes Eggsy’s arm, then rises from the couch, heading over to the sink.

“’M just going to wash my hands before dinner,” Eggsy calls, heading to the loo. They both prefer knowing where the other is, even if it’s only as far away as the next room. “Be right back.”

He pushes the door open, back to Mr. Pickle on the mantle, and turns on the sink. Water hungrily gushes out, the slightest bit too loud in the small room, and Eggsy flinches. _You’re all right. You’re all right. You’re here, in Harry’s bathroom in his house. He’s alive, we both are, and I can walk out of this._

Looking at the door is always a clear assurance—Poppy’s padded door didn’t resemble the sturdy wooden one at all—and Eggsy breathes, counting backwards, water still running.

But it doesn’t help. Everything’s going blurred, slipping around the edges, the light outside seeming too bright and stinging his eyes. His chest heaves, and for a minute, he wobbles in place, hands reaching out to grab the edge of the sink, but miss, slipping and trembling. There’s a soft yet shrill laugh, mixed in with soft country music. He hears tiny pings of metal falling onto the tiles and turns around, colourful wings shedding the pins, flapping delicately.

Yellow and black and blue and orange and green flutter around him, and Eggsy holds up his arms, still trying to count, still trying to breathe, but they keep coming, beautiful and lurid and whirring like—like—

Machines. Mechanical creatures. Dogs bursting from shiny metallic doghouses, ripping into Tequila’s leg, spraying blood on the scrubbed tiles. They snarl and growl like real ones, like JB when he sees a cat, eyes with a camera focus on vulnerable skins. And the butterflies, too—they’re angry, wings whizzing and buzzing and flapping like a hummingbird’s, rapid and sharp and blurred—

Eggsy lets out a sharp cry when the edges of the wings cut him, and he covers his face with his arms, but the attacks come, as fast and relentless as machine gun fire, slicing him with their paper-thin wings, sharp as Gazelle’s blades. Blood wells up from his skin, his vulnerable skin, and the music playing is louder—louder—twanging country and upbeat disco—with silver lights—and he yells, heading for the door, scrabbling for the handle.

He remembers this, remembers how this worked, and Poppy’s gone, gone, gone—they’d saved the world again—but everything is too real—had seeped into his system—never right again, never knowing, never—

“Eggsy!” Hands settle gently on his arms, and he wildly struggles, kicking and hearing a pained grunt. “Eggsy! It’s me. It’s me. Please, Eggsy, listen to me.”

“Harry?”

“Yes, it’s me. Eggsy, can you tell me where you lived before this?” Hands rub his shoulders, gentle and slow. “Small to large, Eggsy. Small to large.”

“Rowley Way,” Eggsy obediently begins, shutting his eyes. “Alexandria Row Estates. Borough of Camdem. North West London. Britain. UK.”

“Did you live on the second or first floor?”

He concentrates, picturing the catwalk, the one where he used to parkour off of. “Second.”

“Your address? The numbers?”

Eggsy dutifully rattles them off, head beginning to clear, but Harry keeps going, voice low and soothing: “What is your mother’s full name?”

“Michelle Samantha Unwin.”

“Your sister’s?”

“Daisy Rhian Unwin.”

“Your father’s?”

“Lee Jonno Unwin.”

“Yours?”

“Gary David Unwin.”

“What do you call yourself?”

“Eggsy.”

“And lastly, Eggsy, what is my name?”

“Harry.” He breathes in the scent of wool and cologne, focusing those familiar arms now wrapped around him. “Harry Andrew Hart.”

“Yes.” Harry’s there, solid and warm. “You’re all right.”

When Eggsy comes to, he swears. “Fuck. Another….I thought…”

“Poppy’s toxins are flushed out our system,” Harry says, reaching over to turn off the faucet. “But…some things are slower to shake off.” He looks around the room. “This…bathroom. It looks like your cell, doesn’t it?” Harry shakes his head, looking guilty as hell. “In the morning, we can redecorate. I didn’t realize—I’m sorry—“

“Harry, you don’t have to do that,” Eggsy insists, embarrassed. Fuck, Harry doesn’t have to change his life for him. “I can handle it.”

“No, Eggsy. This has…unpleasant memories for me as well.” Harry looks around, glancing at the frames lining the walls. “We don’t have to take all of them down. Leave a few frames up, reposition the mirror, paint over this color…”

“Harry—”

“Eggsy.” Harry looks at him, then drops his gaze down to his shoes. “She…replayed our last conversation. Over and over. I never…I never wanted to hurt you then.”

“Harry, _fuck_ , I forgave you a long time ago.” Eggsy takes both of his hands, squeezing. Shit, Poppy had died too quickly. “Yeah, it…it hurt. She used that against me, too.” And Charlie, Charlie and his petty cruelty, making Harry say things he’d never say, telling him what a useless chav he was. He knew better, but…well, Charlie had a too-quick end as well. “I’m sorry for hurting you, too.”

Something passes through Harry’s eyes, and he looks at where Eggsy had stood that awful day. “I think we should redo a few of the rooms. What do you say?”

“The office,” Eggsy says hesitantly. “I think…it wasn’t as bad, but…maybe just move the desk or…or something.” He can’t quite let go of _The Sun_ covers, the ones that stood over him as he crouched on the floor after V-Day, sobbing for what he told himself was the last time, and when he and Harry sat together, talking about potential and missions and martinis.

“The bedroom, too,” Harry adds, but Eggsy gets the feeling he’s not actually talking to him. “Yes, that too.”

“She fucked them up,” Eggsy suddenly snaps, fiercely. “She fucked up…everything.” The good memories, the fantasies, the small and cherished ones he’d clung tight to in those terrible months. He still had fondness for that night mixing martinis and learning how to eat like a gentleman, but there was an ugly taint to it, like a smear of bright paint across a white room. "Fuck, I hate her. Hate this. Why did she...?" But he knows why. She was a psychopath, an egomaniac psychopathic genius who wanted vengeance and control after Kingsman and V-Day. "She fucked up everything," he repeats, anger choking his voice. _Fuck_ , he's trembling like a leaf in Harry's arms. Harry needs him. He can't...

“No,” Harry says, “not everything.” He tilts Eggsy’s chin up. “Even when…I thought you weren’t who you were, I still felt strongly for you. Something she was never able to take away.”

Eggsy nods slowly, looking into Harry's whiskey-brown eye and the one covered by an eyepatch. “Yeah. I…” His throat closes up. “Did you…mean it? Where you really there when…?” He remembers Harry standing in his cell, interrogating him, Poppy using him as a weapon and balm all at once. _Do this for me, please. I don’t want her to hurt you anymore. I love you._

Harry must know what he’s talking about because he nods, caressing his cheek with his thumb. “I…might not have been myself when I said that, but yes. Yes, I do.” He grimaces. “I only wish I had said it to you under different circumstances.”

“Fuck her,” Eggsy says fiercely. “This is the first time. The _real_ one.” It’s not the way it really works, but he’s done. He’s done with Poppy having power over them, even after death. He’s done with doubting himself. It’s not going to be over, not even close, but this is a bunch of small steps. Him and Harry, together, against the world. “I love you, too.”

Harry looks briefly startled, but his features smooth out, settling into a smile. “Oh, Eggsy. I…” He looks like he wants to say more, but Eggsy leans up, up on his toes, and kisses him, pouring everything he has into it. _You're here. I'm here. I love you. We'll do this together._

Harry is here. Harry is real. Both of them are, and a little broken, too, but that’s fine. They’ll face whatever comes at them, and they’ll be the legendary knights of Kingsman. They’ll come back and kick the world flat on its arse. They’ll have more adventures and come home to walls painted a new color, furniture in different places, those little details that’ll matter.

They’ll survive this. One day at a time.


End file.
